


Henchmen

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Series: The Young Ones - Love & Mobsters [11]
Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Explicit Language, Extortion, Guns, Homophobia, Loan Sharking, M/M, POV First Person, inappropriate musing in the middle of fights, mob fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeline: September 1985</p>
<p>A typical day in the life of three of Mike's henchmen turns into anything but, in several ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Henchmen

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been author-edited for typos and grammar, but has NOT been beta'd!
> 
> And I don't know that the violence in this particular work is all _that_ graphic, but sensitive types should read with caution, especially the first bit.

# Rory

So I'm standing outside this shop, waiting for the bloody door to open and freezing my bollocks off in the meantime. I've just put out my last fag, and I'm anxious to get the next pack. Wouldn't mind a nip either, the morning's cold enough. I half can't believe I'm out here, barely past the crack o'dawn, waiting outside an off-license when I haven't even had breakfast. This is how the day of a criminal begins, a regular routine when you've been recruited into Mike's Business.

Getting roped into organized crime's a bit of a laugh, but the pay's surprisingly good if you keep your head down and get results. That works for me, I'm a results-oriented guy, though you've got to wonder just how much ol' Mikey's putting away if he can afford to blow several hundred quid a week (plus bonus and expenses) on a bloke like me, not to mention the others. Either way, it's a decent gig – sure beats knocking over corner shops and stealing medication from dead old ladies. I owe it to Vyv. I've known Vyv nearly half my life and he's never steered me wrong; this job's no exception. Even get a bit of fresh air and sunshine, like today. I'm out on assignment, supposed to be leaning on the shopkeeper, been skipping out on his obligations. Looking forward to that bit – 's a bloody riot.

The shopkeeper's finally made his way to the door, and he's looking at me sort-of funny, like he knows what I'm up to. Unlikely – I've never paid a business visit to this particular shop before. Only been at it a couple months as it is – he's usually one of Vyv's regulars. He lets me in anyway – this bloke's just full of poor decisions.

He's just like you'd expect a shopkeeper to look. A squat little man, beady eyes squinting out behind his thick spectacles. Balding, pot belly, sallow even for an Englishman, something squirrely about him – he smells like a welcher, and of course, that's just what he is.

I'm getting better at this sort of thing. He don't know me, so I have the advantage of easing into it.

"Pack of Chesterfields," I say, casual-like. He gets 'em down and rings me up, but he holds onto 'em for a bit.

"These things'll kill you, you know," the smug bastard says. He's looking all fatherly and I'm looking forward to wiping that smug look off his pasty face.

"Eeh, I'm young yet. Though, that reminds me. Friend of mine sends his regards."

"Oh? Who's that, then?"

"Jerzei Balowski."

I love that moment when they realize who they're dealing with. This one's reaction is classic. His expression shifts from concern for me, to concern for himself. 'S funny how a change that subtle is so dramatic. ' _Not so smug now, are you, you shifty fucker?_ '

He starts backing away from the counter, and I hop up onto it before he can get far – can't have him making any sudden moves on me. I'm sitting on the counter, leaning under the overhang; I've got him by the shirt now and he's bloody close to shitting his pants.

"You remember him, don't you Clive? You remember how he helped you out last month, and the month before that, and before that, even. He's been so kind to you. Nearly five-thousand pounds worth of kindness, why've you got to shirk your responsibilities?"

He stammers, but he don't have an answer. I like to consider myself a patient bloke, but that noise he's making is getting on my nerves. I push him back, and he falls onto the stool behind the counter. I climb back and keep him where he is with a hand on his shoulder. He stays put - he's terrified of me already, and I ain't even brought out my persuasion tools yet. Only one out's my fist, and I'm itching to use it. ' _Give me a reason, you wormy bastard, one reason.'_

"What's in the till, pops? How much am I going to take back as a retainer so myself or one of my associates don't have to come back here and break your face?"

"It's…it's been a bad week…"

Now that's no way to begin a negotiation. He's trying to weasel out of it already, and I ain't having it.

The back of my hand proves I mean business when it meets his cheek. His spectacles go flying and now he's moments away from blubbering like a little girl.

"Please," he says, and I dunno why he's wasting his breath on one little smack – he don't know what I'm capable of, "Please, I'm trying to tell you, there's not much, only a couple hundred-"

"Shut up," I've already got it open while his tongue's wagging and ol' pasty-face is a bad, bad liar. A smarter man might have kept the extra in a safe or in the back, but a smarter man wouldn't have borrowed a king's ransom to waste on the ponies from the same loan shark he already owed protection dues to in the first place. I eyeball the contents of the till - close to a grand, far as I can see. Bad week my arse – Clive's week's about to get a lot worse.

"Oh Clive," I shake my head, "You're discovered, mate." He makes a little squealing kind of noise.

I turn back to him and he ain't blubbering or stammering or nothing. Just standing there all pale and quiet like. He's searching my face for a sign of kindness. Lucky for Clive, I'm feeling charitable this morning. He'll be able to walk to hospital on his own and everything.

I find the bank bag under the counter and fill it – everything in the till. I set it aside and turn my attention to pasty-face.

"Put your hand on the counter for me, Clive."

He don't move; bad idea. I can feel my blood pressure rising. Anger's a dangerous emotion in this line of work.

"I ain't going to ask you again fuck face, put your hand on the fucking counter and take your medicine like a good boy or what I got planned is the beginning, not the end, you get me?"

He hesitates one second. Two. My patience is waning, it ain't long before it's gone. Four seconds. Five. He puts his hand on the counter, gingerly, ready to pull it back at any moment. Lucky for both of us, I intend to make this quick.

I grab his wrist with one hand and jerk his first finger back with the other. I hear it crack under my hand and his protest turns into a scream.

"That one's for Jerzei."

I snap the next finger. His scream's a little quieter this time.

"That one's for welching."

Third time's a charm. That scream's as loud as the first.

"And that one's for me."

I release his wrist and he takes his arm back, sobbing at his broken hand. I take the pack of fags still clutched in his other hand, grab the bag and hop back over the counter. I'd rather not look at his sniveling, puffy face any more this morning, but I turn back to him anyway. Gotta do my job.

"Be back in three day's time for the next installment. That's triple what I just took out of that till, in case you've forgot, you stupid fucker. I trust you'll have something waiting for me, if you'd like to keep use of your other hand. And do both of us a favor, Clive. Don't you _ever_ fucking lie to me again."

I leave him wailing behind the counter, opening the pack and lighting a fag on my way out. Stupid bastard knew damn well what was coming, he'd been behind on his payments for weeks. He's lucky Mike sent me and not Vyv, he ain't nearly as lenient as I am.

# Vyvyan

I think this is the most boring day I've had since Mike came up with this scheme. Two hours waiting on a street corner, hovering just outside an alley, idling about like a bloody kid. I can't believe Mickey's late again. Can't believe Mike stuck me with this bloody job. I suppose he's right, he couldn't have trusted Rick with it, the cargo's too precious. Still, I've been sitting on this package, patiently, for bloody ages. Stupid shit must have got lost - lived his whole life in London and still can't find his way around the city. What a waste of two perfectly good fists, when the head in-between them's not bright enough to throw them in the best direction. Such a shame. One's got to be efficient with one's violence - spread enough around to create havoc, but know just where to put it. Decide who deserves the most havoc, and who deserves the least. If you don't have the proper ratio, you're just a boring, simple thug. I'm no thug - I'm an artist. A very bored, currently useless artist.

"Come on, you stupid bastard. I haven't got all day."

I usually have, actually. But I've still got another job to do today, an appointment in fact, got to be right back here meeting Rory pretty soon, and I was hoping to get home in-between jobs. It's the start of the bloody semester, I've got to attend class at least a few times and tomorrow's one of those times. It'd be nice to have at least a _little_ free time today. And what if I've got a patient waiting? Bastard's costing me my bloody livelihood over an £800 drop, it's a bloody waste. Insensitive cunt wouldn't know professional courtesy if it…now, what have we here?

Just now, sauntering up the street like he owns the place, comes the bane of my existence…or light of my life (ugh, I wish there were a less girly way to say that), depends on the mood I'm in. I'm not quite sure which at the moment, he hasn't reached me yet. He's looking rather dapper today, even managed to keep his shirt un-tucked, though I see he's decided to steal my Joy Division t-shirt. S'pose it's my fault for keeping it in his dresser, anyhow. He's got the hang of doing his own mohawk; I like the way he keeps it natural, no spikes, not a lot of product. Subtle, especially for him. Mike must have finally sent him on a real job, his nose is so high in the air you'd think somebody'd got him on a fishhook. I lean back and try to look casual - there's a good chance, if he's feeling particularly good about himself, he'll walk right past me without even noticing. I'm counting on that; it'll make it funnier.

Sure enough, he's ready to just pass me by, doesn't even notice somebody he sees every single day, let alone woke up next to not four hours ago (which, by the way, I would normally be none to pleased with, but he made it up to me. Waking up to a blowjob is the nicest way to wake up). So just as he passes me, I stick a foot out, and he tumbles right over it onto the pavement. He sprawls onto it for a few moments, which is great all by itself, but then the way he contorts himself to glare up at me with as much malice as he can muster is so hilarious, it's all I can do to keep from bursting out laughing. I contain myself to a smirk as recognition spreads across his face, and then he's somehow angrier than before.

"Vyvyan! I should have known, who else would trip a complete stranger on the street?"

"Either you need to fix your definition of stranger, or we need to have a long chat," I reach down to help him up, and he swats at my hand like a bug. So I kick him back down again before letting him get up on his own.

"Well, you _might_ have thought I was a stranger," he says, brushing himself off, "I thought _you_ were."

"Another reason to have a long chat, poof, but not at the moment - I'm working," I lean back against the wall. I don't intend on having a chat of any length, but I think he catches my meaning, because he softens up right after that. Good - I swear, I'm going to teach him humility if it kills him.

"So what are you doing out here, anyway? I thought you weren't meeting Rory until later." He leans against the wall next to me, arms crossed, one leg against the wall. I change positions - unoriginal bastard just assumed mine.

I refer to the brown paper bag in my hand, "On a mission. Only got two jobs to do today, and I'm stalled on number one because the stupid cunt I'm supposed to meet has never been on time for anything in his life."

"Mmmm," he says in that way he does when he's just waiting for you to finish talking before he starts up again, "Well I'm out here on a very important assignment."

"Oh," I say, like I'm not really interested. I actually am curious as to what he's doing out here, but he doesn't need to know that, does he?

"An assignment from Mike," he says, in a tone that says I should be very impressed.

"Oh," I say, with as little enthusiasm as possible.

"Well didn't you hear me, Vyvyan? I said I was on an assignment from Mike."

"Mmm," I pretend to be watching the traffic, but I'm really watching him out of the corner of my eye. I love it when he goes red like that, it means the fire in his eyes is going to spark soon. I live for that fire.

"Well aren't you going to ask me what it's about?" He's shouting now, but his voice says he still thinks he's trying to be reasonable. Can't allow that.

"Hadn't crossed my mind."

"Vyvyan, you are an inconsiderate, thoughtless, self-absorbed fascist and I don't know why I put up with you! I've got half a mind to-"

I glance around as he berates me - nobody in sight. So I pull him in and kiss him quiet. Works like a charm. Usually.

He pulls away and starts in again, "Stop that, Vyvyan, we're in _public_! What if somebody saw us?"

"Let 'em see, it'll probably be the best show they get all day." I mean it, too. Discretion is one thing, but he's been determined to keep me a secret from the whole world since day one and I'm sick of it. Closets are small and cramped and uncomfortable and I'd rather not live in one if I can help it. But he does have a bit of a point - Mickey'd be likely to walk right 'round the other way if he were to see us. So I lead him a little further into the alley, pull him close, and ignore his protests. This time it really does shut him up.

# Rory

I'm on my way to collect Vyv, and I'm honestly surprised he hasn't met up with me yet. He was supposed to track me down once he was done with Mickey, get a head start over to Jerzei's office. We're supposed to back up Balowski while he negotiates with Bertolini over some turf issues. His men have been butting in on the boss' territory lately, and he's none too keen on it, but we're trying to come to a diplomatic solution before it ends in gunfire. Nobody wants war, this is one of the few industries where it actually _is_ bad for business, though it's often necessary. That Bertolini's not what you'd call an honest crook, and he's been breathing down Balowski's neck for years. I seem to have joined in on the tail end of a rather delicate situation, and now suddenly I've found myself tasked with standing around with my thumb up my arse for a few hours making sure Bertolini's muscle don't start any shit.

Where the fuck _is_ Vyv? I reach the corner where he was supposed to be, and sure enough, he ain't there. I wonder if he's ducked into that alley to have a piss or something. I have a peek, and sure enough, there he is, and he's…

What the fuck?

They're snogging. Vyv and Rick. Vyv's got Rick right up against the wall, and they're going at it like they's about to start removing clothing. Well, they've stopped now, because apparently I said the 'what the fuck' part out loud, but still. I'm gobsmacked. I'd always had a feeling about Rick, truth be told, he always struck me as a bit…fey. But Vyv? Vyvyan Basterd, the same bloke I've known since I was thirteen, snogging other blokes? Since when? He looks spooked. Do I look angry? Because I'm angry.

"The fuck is this?!"

Rick's got his face hidden in his hands. Vyv looks like the cat with the canary. Fuck him, he's shocked? _I'm_ fucking shocked.

"Just about what it looks like," Vyv mutters. Well fuck me, thanks for that clarification, I'd never have figured _that_ one out on my own. I don't know what to say. I'm barely in control of my faculties at this point - everything I've ever known about my oldest and best mate has just been called into question and I'm not sure what's what anymore. My mouth starts runnin' before my mind can catch up.

"How long has this been going on?!" I probably shouldn't have shouted that so loud. Any onlookers probably think I'm a poofter now, too.

"None of your fucking business!" Vyv's not looking ashamed anymore, he's looking ready for blood. Bring it on, I'll take on a fight anytime, and it ain't like we ain't brawled before. Shit, I know his every move. Well, I thought I did.

"Well see, that's funny, because I should think a bloke I'm supposed to be trusting with my _fucking life_ should maybe let me know little things like how he's _fucking other blokes_!"

"What the fuck difference does it make? It's still none of your fucking business, not as if I'm fucking _you_ is it?!"

Something occurs to me and suddenly I'm angrier than before.

"Jesus Christ, that time at Harrod's! Holy fuck, you really _were_ fucking, weren't you? Augh, god! How fucking stupid do you think I am?"

Rick has slid down the wall and he looks like he's trying to curl himself into enough of a ball to disappear completely. Vyv is standing between him and me, and he's about ten seconds away from throwing a punch at me; I can tell, I know his fighting stances. I'm ready to punch back.

"If I have to say it's none of your business one more time you're going to regret it. Walk away. Now." He's gone from loud to quiet, a sure sign he's about to go berserk. I should listen to him, but my mouth's still running and my mind's still slow.

"Fuckin' hell Vyv, all this time you been a fuckin' po-"

I don't even get the word out before his fist meets my face - I was too busy running my mouth off to notice he'd swung. I swing back and make contact, and now we're brawling like we ain't in years. We trade punches for a while before he manages to get me in a headlock. Fucker punches me right in the fucking nose while he's still holding my head. I sucker-punch him hard enough to throw him off his balance and he lets go, only to whirl on me and sock me in the gut. I get him in the face again, and we go back to trading punches.

Funnily enough, last time we fought this hard, it was over a girl. Angelica Brown, fucking hell she was gorgeous. Complete bitch, it turned out, but I didn't know that when I stole her away from Vyv when we was fifteen. He had every right to be pissed off, first girl to ever give him the time of day and I stole her right from under his nose before he could so much as feel her up a bit. Did it mostly _to_ piss him off, truth be told. Still not even quite sure _why._ I mean, I was a vicious little shit, but he was my friend, best friend I ever made at the borstal. I was jealous of him, I suppose. He always seemed to have his shit together, so much more than any of us, and he was smarter than the rest of us put together. Still is. I suppose I felt like maybe his life deserved some of the misery the rest of us had hovering over us. Seemed like he'd been spared the chip we all had on our shoulders. He certainly never seemed to show it, anyway; though with hindsight I've realized he never, _ever_ talks about his past. Nobody knows much of anything about Vyv, even me. But as a kid I never noticed how he always seemed to find a way to talk about anything but himself. I only knew that the extremely cool, totally together, psychopathic bastard who'd just swooped in and taken over the place had caught himself a bird before any of us could, and I wanted to take him down a peg. I'd been the one to show him the ropes, after all, I suppose I felt like he owed me one. He really kicked my arse for it. Knocked me out eventually, one of only two people to ever do that. I don't think he's ever forgiven me completely. Which makes this sudden discovery all the more bewildering.

We've hit the ground, he's already head-butted me once and now I'm foggy. He's got me on my back, and he's ready to beat me unconscious if given the chance. I've had enough, no fucking way is he going to knock me out twice. I pop him good and hard, right in the jaw, and he keels over. I get to my feet. I can't see nothing through my anger and I just want to get the fuck out of here and _think_. Wish my mouth would shut the fuck up and give me the chance.

"Stay the fuck away from me," I hear myself say as I walk away, "Fuckin' faggot arsehole."

# Vyvyan

Well, that went well. Part of me is wondering whether I should bother getting up at all, honestly. Humiliation doesn't really cover it. But I sit up anyway, assess the damage. Jaw's not broken, that's a start, though it smarts like hell. I look over to Rick and he's curled into a ball on the ground. I can see a bit of his face, and he doesn't look mortified - he looks terrified. Probably thought Rory'd come after him next. He wouldn't have, I don't think.

Rory's always had somewhat of a "live and let live" attitude about most things. He's an agreeable sort - first and only friend I ever made at the borstal. Rest of the residents were a bunch of irritating bastards without a thought in their heads. He forced me into it, tell the truth. Wouldn't leave me alone until I'd talk to him, and he was agreeable enough to go ahead and fight me as long as I wanted to until I gave in. He's incredibly loyal. He'd happily volunteer himself to fight somebody right alongside you, even if he had no beef with him himself, and then happily buy you a drink afterward. If I didn't know him so well, I'd call that aspect of his nature a bit girly. Even some of the others have noticed, he catches hell about it sometimes. I mean, he's fucking ruthless - but he's so damn _friendly_. He never goes out of his way to insult anybody, never picks a fight (though once you've got him going, you'd better know how to hold your own. I think he may have put more blokes in hospital than I have), is plenty game for some friendly razzing, but never seems to have a truly unkind word about anybody, save those threatening him or anyone he considers a friend. Never actually heard him call _anybody_ a faggot before, come to think of it. Lucky me.

I suppose I was fooling myself to believe I could have hidden it from him forever. Out of all the annoying bastards I spend my time with, he's certainly the least annoying, so I've spent a lot of time with him over the years. He probably considers me his best friend - well, probably _did_ anyway. I hadn't considered how he'd react if he were to ever find out, but I hadn't really expected _that_ strong of a reaction. There goes that friendship, I suppose, right down the drain. If I cared at all, I'd be a little disappointed.

I get up and get over to Rick. Better calm him down, he's practically shaking. He's sitting up by the time I get over to him, and I've only just now noticed - his face has gone from fear to anger. What's _he_ got to be angry about? Don't tell me he's going to blame _me_ for this.

"Well that's just great, Vyvyan! That's just fucking fantastic!"

He's struggling to get to his feet, but he doesn't want my help - he just knocked my hand away for the second time today. Fuck him, he can get up by himself if he's going to be such a baby about it.

"You've done a real bang-up job, Vyv, really, well fucking done!" He's on his feet now and he's getting into my face. He's really hacked off, he never curses like that, not with his clothes on anyway.

"What's up _your_ arse? It's not _my_ fault the stupid bastard caught us! He shouldn't have been snooping around in the first place!"

"You just _had_ to show off, didn't you? You just couldn't resist freaking out the bloody normals instead of waiting until we got home! Of all your friends to discover us first, it _had_ to be bloody Rory! He's never going to speak to you again, you realize that?"

Can't figure this out at all. He's not the one who just lost his best…who just got humiliated by a bloke he hangs around a lot. He barely even knows Rory, what does he care if he isn't around anymore? _I_ don't even care, not really. Not much. Not very much.

"What's the difference? He's just a stupid bastard who's been following me around for a while, it's a relief to be rid of him!" I mean that…I think.

"Augh, be serious, Vyvyan! I _know_ you don't mean that! You _knew_ he'd be coming to meet you, you told me as much this morning! It's like you bloody _planned_ it, like you _wanted_ it to happen! Why are you _like_ that? Why do you have to go out of your way to try and sabotage every bloody relationship you have? Are you _trying_ to alienate the entire bloody world?"

"SHUT UP!" I don't even want to dignify any of that with a bloody response, but I'd also genuinely like him to shut his fucking mouth. He doesn't know what he's bloody talking about.

He stares at me, red-faced and angry, for a long moment, before turning away. That's unexpected. It's not like him to refuse a fight.

"Just keep lying to yourself, Vyvyan, I'm sure it'll work out fine. I've got a job to do, I'll see you later."

I watch him stalk off, and part of me wants to chase him down. Other part wants to tell him to fuck off, perhaps permanently. I take a third option and punch the wall next to me a few times instead. Feels a bit better. I don't see the point in thinking about what he said. He's full of shit.

Anyway, I've got a job to do as well. I'm going to try and track Mickey down, try to salvage what I can of this crap day.

# Rory

I ain't gonna make my appointment. I can't fucking concentrate. Gotta clear my head. I wander around aimlessly for a while, can't even calm down enough to have a direction in mind. I find myself at a park and figure, hell, might as well watch some nice scenery as I question my understanding of the entire world. Question myself, the last thing I said to him.

Why did I _say_ that? The fuck do I care what Vyv does with his time? He's right, it really isn't none of my fucking business. What made me so _angry_ about it in the first place? I don't usually go in on the whole queer-bashing thing. They ain't hurtin' nobody. I mean, I'll defend myself against slander and all that, make sure to correct any wrong ideas, but I ain't got no problem with 'em. But this - it was all so sudden. One minute I think I know what's what, and the next I realize I got no idea.

I always knew there was depths to Vyv he don't show nobody. You can guess that just by talking to him for five minutes; a well-spoken, foul-mouthed, polite, destructive, med-student punk who'll just as soon talk philosophy with you as whether the bird down the road's got great tits. Contradictions all-around. He'll never say a good word about you, never say a good word about _anybody_ , but then he'll back you up in a fight and fight to the death if need be. He'd never say so, but he's really very protective of his friends. But depths like _those_? I had no clue.

I feel like a complete arsehole. Like I betrayed him, betrayed his trust in me, to be his friend no matter what. I get up from the park bench I'd found myself on, get ready to track Vyv down and apologize, when the giant mook in the overcoat blindsides me and tackles me into some bushes, out of sight. Great. A mugging. Haven't fought my way out of one of them in a while.

I throw a punch somewhere around the bloke's face and I'm surprised to miss - for a big guy, he's pretty fast. He leaps onto me before I can dodge, and starts pummeling my face. There's something strange about this attack - fucker seems a bit brutal for a mugger. He's fighting like he wants to kill me. Christ, that last one hurt. Two punches to the nose in one day. It's definitely broken now, I've broke it enough to know.

I shove him off of me and that's when I recognize him. I don't know the fucker's name, but I'd know his face. Watched it suspiciously for two fucking hours acting as a guard for Balowski just a couple weeks ago - during his negotiations with Bertolini. This bloke's some of Bertolini's top muscle.

Fuck. Seems negotiations have broken down.

I've got to get to my jacket pocket, but before I can even reach for it, fucker's on me again. Jesus, he's really out for blood, it's like he's tryin' to kill me with his bare hands. Lucky for me, I don't have any aversion to weapons. I still can't reach my jacket, but he's made the mistake of knocking me over without restraining my arms - or noticing my ankle's in reach of my hand. I'll use the one in my sock.

He stops going for my throat, freezes for a moment, when he hears the switchblade click. Big mistake.

' _Didn't expect me to defend myself? Thought I was too green to arm myself effectively? I've been fighting my whole life, you stupid fucker, and now you're in deep shit._ '

I can see the gears turning in that thick skull. Before he can snap out of it, I reach behind him and slice right through his Achilles tendon. Stupid fucker isn't even wearing boots.

He screams, and I shove him off me again. I watch him try, unsuccessfully, to get to his feet. He's gone from intimidating to a scared little boy. He'd better be fucking scared, I'm angry enough to kill him. He lunges for me and I jump out of the way with no trouble. Get behind him and lock his arms, my hands behind his head, knife to the back of his neck. He's struggling, and he's already cut himself on it. He'd better be careful, I'd hate to cut through to his spine. Much as I'd love to cut this fucker down, I need him alive. I lean into his ear.

"Gonna have to crawl, you stupid cunt. Crawl on back to your master. You tell Bertolini he's gonna have to send **_men_** to fight if he's gonna try to fuck with me. You tell him Balowski's boys ain't goin' down without a fight, and if he brings one, we're the ones'll fuckin' win."

He laughs. _Laughs_ , like he ain't the one in a fucking headlock with a sharp blade centimeters from his spinal column.

"We got men all over North London," he says, and he sounds as slow as he looks, "Balowski'll be nothin' by week's end."

"We'll see about that," I doubt it, truth be told. If this fucker's one of the best Bertolini's got to offer, we're more likely to wipe _him_ out. We've got men all over North London as well, after all, and half of 'em fight better than me and Vyv. Shit, more than half of them carry guns. Still, this last comment worries me - makes me think this wasn't an isolated attack. No-necked fucker was probably planning something big today. Probably already set it in motion. I release the mook, but make sure to get his other heel quick before I get up. He's cursin' me through howls of pain, but he'll never catch me on his knees. I put my knife away and get to runnin'. I've got to get back to Mike's, make sure he knows what's going on.

# Vyvyan

That was a fruitless fucking mission. Mickey isn't fucking anywhere. Wasn't back at his headquarters, wasn't at home, wasn't at the fucking pub where I expected him to be when I couldn't find him the other two places. No idea what's happened to him. I've headed home, time to tell Mike the job's been fucked over by Balowski's brain-dead goon before I make my way over to Balowski's for the world's most uncomfortable guard session.

God, it's nice to be home. This day went from bad to shit very quickly and it's only just noon. Think I'll track down the poof - I could use a bit of decompression, and there's no way he's still miffed at me.

Mike stops me just before I hit the stairs.

"Rick's not with you?" My stomach jumps to my throat. I can hear it in his voice - he's trying not to sound concerned.

"No, last I saw him he was off to do the job you gave him, whatever it was."

"When was that?"

I think a moment. How long was I held up trying to track Mickey down?

"Hour ago? Hour and a half?"

Mike curses under his breath. That doesn't sound good. Should I be concerned?

"That's a problem. He was supposed to come right back, should have been gone twenty minutes, thirty at the most. I gave him a message for Perkins, supposed to be bringing one back. It was _urgent_. He's been over that way before, Perkins knows him, I doubt he got lost."

That _is_ a problem. Arnold Perkins runs " _Ooh La La_ " a lingerie shop that acts as one of Balowski's laundering fronts. I've never met the man, but I hear he's a bit…eccentric. And somewhat of a gun nut. Mike puts a hand on my shoulder and I listen up - he doesn't tend to make physical contact unless he's serious.

"Look Vyv, something's up. I just got a call from Balowski - Mickey's dead. Shot in the back of the fucking head in the middle of the fucking street. We can't tell who's responsible just yet, but Balowski suspects Bertolini - he's gone from vaguely unreasonable to threatening and there's a good chance he's trying to thin Balowski's herd. He's canceled the meeting, for obvious reasons. There's a good chance it was a setup."

Okay, now I'm actively trying to _not_ be concerned. Right around 'Mickey's dead,' Mike's voice just sort-of faded into the background; I barely heard the rest of it.

"Go track down Perkins and find out what he knows. But be _careful_ , I can't have my star player cut down in the fucking street." Mike's still trying not to sound worried, but he _looks_ worried, and that's somehow worse. My stomach drops. I nod - I'm afraid if I say anything, my voice will shake.

I know where the shop is, I can get there quick. I wish I could stop thinking in the meantime, stop my heart from pounding. I start trying to drown out the things I'm really thinking with empty promises.

_'It's all right. It's fine. He just got lost, or distracted, or something stupid. It's fine. I'll run into him on the way home, he'll be strutting down the street like he owns the place again and I can clothesline him for being so late and worrying Mike like that. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.'_

I don't run into him on the way there. Don't run into anybody. I get there, finally, and take a deep breath before entering the shop.

The shop is empty.

Perkins isn't behind the counter, but the door is open and the lights are on. Somebody's here. There was a bell on the door, it should have alerted him to the front. I make a cursory glance around the sales floor - doesn't take long, it's a pretty tiny shop - and find a hallway leading into the back. I'll take a look back there, maybe he's in the break room or something.

I get two steps into the hallway when I hear the distinct sound of a shotgun cocking. I freeze.

"Hands in the air," an old, gruff voice says, and I obey it, slowly, without turning around. As I understand it, Perkins is unpredictable enough to shoot with the slightest provocation, and I'm not so confident as to think I could outrun a bullet, let alone a shotgun blast.

"What's your business here?" Old man sounds suspicious. Does he always treat his potential customers like this, or only the ones he catches trying to sneak into the back? I don't see the point in lying - stupid bastard's on our side anyway.

"Mike sent me. Bloke came in here about an hour ago, had a message for you. Mike's expecting his answer back, wants to know what happened to the messenger. You seen him?"

He laughs - it's not a nice sound at all.

"Mike's got all the messages he'll ever get from me. Save for his cronies failing to return, I'd expect that'll send a pretty clear message."

Well. Seems the stupid bastard isn't on our side after all - not anymore, anyway. Hang on, cronies? Plural?

"Where is he? The messenger?"

"He's taken care of. Mike'll find him at the bottom of the fuckin' river, same as you."

' _Taken care of? Oh god. No.'_

"Well, most of him anyway - Bertolini's payin' handsomely for your heads. Only a matter of time before he comes for Mike's."

_"No, no, please no, he's bluffing, he has to be bluffing, he's just got him tied up somewhere, he hasn't got him at all, he hasn't even seen him, he's only trying to intimidate me, god no, please be all right, be all right, I'll find you, I'll save you, just be all right, don't be…don't be…'_

"No honor among thieves, eh?" I'm trying to sound calm. I have no idea if I'm succeeding, I can't think about anything but the look on his face when he walked away from me, angry and embarrassed. The last thing I said to him was-

"Shut up!" I can hear him step toward me just before I feel the barrel against the back of my neck. "Get moving! We'll be heading toward the back, sonny."

I don't really have a choice, do I? I hate myself. Letting some mad old bastard get the drop on me like this, not checking the shop more thoroughly before heading back here, letting Rick go off by himself in the first place, I should have been there, I should have been protecting him.

' _Please, poof, please be all right, please, I don't want the last thing I ever think to be how I couldn't save you, please, please._ '

I take a step before I hear the door bell again. The old bastard stops pushing quite suddenly.

"Put it down, old man. You'll have a hole in your fuckin' head faster than you can fuckin' blink."

# Rory

Got here just in time, it looks like. Mike said I'd just missed Vyv, sent me to back him up, even gave me his own gun - said he had another upstairs. Good thing, too. Wrinkly old fucker puts the shotgun down, nice and slow, my gun right up against the base of his skull. Soon as it's out of his hands, I strike him with the butt of the gun and knock him out. I look up at Vyv and he's staring back at me like he's seen a ghost.

"Hi," I'm glad to see him - I was thinking the worst after that encounter in the park.

"Hi," he looks suspicious. He's got every right to be, I was a complete prick to him. There's something else, though. He's trying to keep the poker face on, but looks a bit pale, and I don't think it was from the old fucker holding a gun to his back. I kick the shotgun out of the old fucker's reach - can't have him getting the drop on both of us.

"Help me look," I try to distract Vyv, he don't look too good, "Got to find something to tie the fucker up with before he comes to again."

"Okay," he starts looking around same as me. Not as if there are any ropes just lying around, that'd be too easy. But there _are_ a bunch of robes over in the corner, and their ties should do just fine in a pinch. Even got some silk ones - nice and strong.

"Look, Vyv," I say as we both start tying knots, "About earlier…"

"It's fine," he says in a voice that says nothing's fine.

"No, look," I know I'm going to have to talk fast if I want to make him listen to me - Vyv don't do talks about friendship, or making up, or much of anything to do with actually being a person around other people, honestly, "I'm sorry I got all pissed off, I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have said any of it, I didn't mean it. I think I was just sore you didn't trust me enough to tell me in the first place. We known each other all this time, been through hell together, you know I'd take a fuckin' bullet for you, and I know you'd do the same for me no matter what you say, so don't bother denying it."

He ain't saying nothing at the moment. Which is actually good - means he's listening instead of just brushing me off, "And you're completely right, it ain't none of my business, but I just want you to know - I really don't care about it. You're my best mate, Vyv, or you was until I fucked it up. I know I probably fucked it up pretty good, but I was hoping maybe we could keep being best mates?"

He don't meet my eyes, and for a minute I think he's gonna pretend like I didn't say anything. Then he clears his throat and ties his knots a little more roughly.

"We're still friends, Rory. I'll kick your arse for it properly later. Shut up about it, let's get this finished."

Well hell, that was more of a direct response than I ever expected from him. Don't think he's ever actually called me his friend to my face before, not since we've actually _been_ good friends. Vyv's changing, make no mistake. Wonder what brought it on?

We tie him up good and proper and stick him behind the counter. Hopefully he'll be out for a while, and when he comes to he'll be safe in Balowski's interrogation room watching a fist head for his face. Stupid fucker, thought he could betray us? Not half likely. I pick up the phone on the counter and start dialing for one of our middle-men, a pub owner just down the way from Balowski's office. It's funny actually - I've known him for years, never knew he was a gangster. Suppose everybody's got hidden depths.

"Murphey's," the voice on the other end growls.

"Murph, it's me. Get the word out to Balowski, Perkins turned on us. We got him tied up down at his shop, send somebody down to collect him, we're going to want to find out what he knows."

"Got it. Watch your arse, Savage, it's fucking chaos today. Balowski's got that no-necked wop on the run, but he's already got five of us."

I wrinkle my nose at the slur, but don't bring it up. Nobody's got any fucking class anymore, do they?

"Watch your own arse, Murph, just hurry it up."

I hang up without another word - everything going on today, I'm feeling paranoid. Can't be sure the phone isn't bugged. Vyv's been watching me without really watching me the whole time. He's miles away - what's his problem? Hang on a moment -

"Where's Rick? Mike said he sent you over to collect him."

I didn't think Vyv could get paler - I was wrong.

"I don't know," he says, quiet and strained, and it finally hits me - he's fuckin' scared. Ain't used to seeing Vyv scared. In fact, I ain't never seen him like this, save once, a very, very long time ago. A time we don't talk about. It's an unsettling sight, like the world's gone wrong.

"Got even a clue?"

He looks down at the old fucker, "…said he was taken care of."

"Let's take a look around, he's probably got him stashed somewhere around here."

That was the wrong way to phrase that. I thought he looked scared before.

"Christ, Vyv, I didn't mean…I'm sure he's fine."

"Shut up, Rory."

Fair enough. We head down the hallway and start trying doors.

# Vyvyan

We hear shuffling behind the rear-most door and exchange glances – this must be it. I try the door and find the knob won't turn – that won't do at all. Rory stands back on instinct, and good thing too, because the splinters that go flying when I rear back and kick the door in would've gone right through his eye. Doorway leads into a lit cellar - underground store room, most likely.

A muffled scream meets us as soon as I've got the door open, and it's a familiar sound, having gagged Rick several times myself. I close my eyes in…I don't know if relief is a strong enough word. If Rory weren't standing right behind me I'd be tempted to run down the stairs, grab hold of him and never let go. Fuck, I'm tempted to do it anyway. I'm really in deep, aren't I? Fucking girly nonsense, what the fuck has he got me into?

My worry fades to amusement by the time we get to the bottom of the stairs. He's fine - he's already berating us through his gag. He looks ridiculous. His arms are tied behind him, to the back of the chair, his legs each tied to a chair leg of their own. It appears the crazy old bastard used pants as tie-downs. Frilly ones. I decide to be a gentleman and slide the pair of knickers tied around his head out of his mouth.

"Well it's about bloody time!" he says immediately after his endlessly-wagging tongue is free.

"Sort-of had our hands full, mate," Rory says, obviously stifling a laugh. I don't bother stifling. Feels good to laugh.

"We were busy protecting Mike's assets," I say when I've managed to stop laughing, "Be good and we'll untie you sooner rather than later."

"Be good?! I've been down here for hours, fighting for my life in fear of some madman with gun, and all you can say is, 'be good'?! Everything I've been through today, I should be bloody knighted!"

" _Knighted_?" Rory snorts. He's not stifling anymore either, "You? The Queen herself'd take one look at you and abdicate the throne on account of the sorry state of the crown."

"Oh very funny, you ought to give up this business and be a comedian. What are you waiting for? Untie me this instant!" He's started punctuating his words with little hops, and the chair is threatening to break underneath him. I'd rather like it to, it'd be hilarious to see his face. "I've been here all bloody day, how dare you make me wait even longer?"

"You ran off two hours ago, girly. Now shut up, or I won't untie you at all." I mean it, too. A bloody hassle this day's been, I don't need his attitude. If not for the imminent danger of whatever the fuck's going on today, I'd have half a mind to leave him here overnight. A bit of hunger'd do him good, he's been spoilt too long under Mike's rule – he's forgot his hard-taught humility.

"Don't you tell me to shut up, you're not the one tied to a bloody chair! I've nearly lost feeling in my legs, I've got a blood clot coming on, I'll die before the hour is out! And another thing–"

Rory unceremoniously, and without prompting, replaces the gag. That's my boy – clearly, we're of the same mind. We share a knowing smile and ignore Rick's howls of protest as we head back up the stairs and shut the door behind us, best as we can with the broken door-jam. We're only having him on, we'll come back in a few minutes.

We can carry him all the way home like that. That'll shut him up.

* * *

**_Thursday, 19 September_ **

_This was quite possibly the most humiliating day of my entire life. Ever. More humiliating than the day Neil found that dress. More humiliating than the day mummy walked in on me having a wank. I don't even need to detail the events of this horrible day here, I will always remember it._

_Vyvyan is a fascist bastard and sometimes I really do hate him. But it seems as if he felt badly about it later. I've only just now been released from the longest hug I think I've ever had. Vyv had a couple fix-ups waiting when he got home, so he did them while Rory untied me. I came straight up to my room, I didn't really want to sit around and listen to Rory and Mike laugh at me anymore. But as soon as Vyvyan was finished, he came into the room, pulled me onto the bed, grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go. He wouldn't stop squeezing either, and I could swear at one point I actually heard him sniffling. We had to be lying there at least an hour, maybe more. Don't know what that was all about, but it was really quite nice. _

_Seems he's still friends with Rory after all. That's good, really. I wouldn't want him to lose his oldest friend over me. I mean, if he had to choose, I'd rather he choose me, obviously. But I'd really rather he didn't have to choose at all._

_Mike says we have to lay low for a few days, wait for things to blow over. It's pretty frightening, but it's all right, I think. It'll be nice to spend a few days at home benefiting from Vyvyan's incredibly long hugs. Maybe I'll hold a poetry reading - a captive audience is a somewhat attentive audience._

**Author's Note:**

> This went through several days of revision before it got put up - I had planned it to go in a somewhat different, and much lighter, direction at first. I like the way it ended up, though.
> 
> But poor Vyvyan. :( I'm sorry Vyv!
> 
> Also, the bit Rick wrote in his diary about Rory surprised even me. That boy's growing up.


End file.
